


I Wish I Were

by Biosahar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A wish coming true, Amnesia, Falling In Love, Fluff, Human AU, Human Aziraphale, Human Crowley, Librarian Aziraphale, M/M, Musician Crowley, New Beginning, Punk Crowley, new life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biosahar/pseuds/Biosahar
Summary: Under a falling star, an angel and a demon make a wish. They both wish they were human, and the wish comes true. Except when they awake, they don't have a single memory of each other.





	1. Chapter 1

''If I were human, I would be a librarian. I would spend hours reading books until my eyes turn red and I give in to sleep.''

''If I were human, I would conquer the goddamn world,'' Crowley interrupted. ''Go big or go home.''

''If I were human, I would drink tea first thing in the morning, and sip it out slowly as I read the newspaper.''

''If I were human, I would get drunk, like, _really_ drunk. I want to pass out from it. Have you ever passed out from getting too drunk?''

Aziraphale's eyes began to squint in both worry and concern. Beside him, Crowley was sitting with a bottle of Whisky in hand. It was nearly empty, but he didn't seem quite bothered by it.

"If you were human, I would need to constantly watch over you," Aziraphale points out, earnest. "You're too careless, Crowley. As a human, you can't be too careless. You have to be extra careful. Humans are vulnerable!"

Crowley laughed a whole-hearted laugh.

"Vulnerable? Oh please. I've seen those little idiots do worse, and trust me, they do not share your puny opinion."

"Oh, Crowley." He lamented, yet chose to be quiet.

Crowley bent his head backward and sipped until the last drop of liquor was gone, then leaned back on the grass next to Aziraphale. Above them, the night sky expanded, infinite in its depth. It stretched over them like an ocean of lustrous stars, ethereal, sublime, suspended above their heads, a window to the great universe, of which, even they have seen so little of.

For a brief second, Crowley considered it. The minor, meager possibility among possibilities, one which never crossed his mind before and which would never cross it again after, the thought of becoming human. If he _were_ human, he would believe what his hellish body fleetingly experiences in the vicinity of Aziraphale to be a tingle of _excitement._ Because what else could it be? What else could possibly draw him to the angel in the first place if not the chance, the promise to ponder upon endless possibilities and have his thoughts acknowledged as being what he always urged himself to believe they were: valid and real? Aziraphale doesn't simply give him that validation, he also garnishes it with the foolishness of innocence and fanciful dreams. At times he makes him feel like the monotony of immortality can, at a chance, be broken, and perhaps it will. Perhaps it takes an angel and a demon for it to work. It always had.

"Where'd you wander off to?" Aziraphale prompts, and his blue hues reflect the multifarious wonders of the milky way. 

"I was wondering," Crowley replies in a hum, his eyes fixed on the sky. "If I were human, would you still be around?"

"Absolutely!" The angel concurs, slightly raising his head with a smile. "I would never leave your side, Crowley. You know that."

And Crowley allowed himself to give in for a brief second, to that foolishness and to that dreaminess by which he had been often fascinated. He allows himself to believe, just for once, that Aziraphale was right, and that, defying all logic, there was, perhaps, a chance for them to re-exist, to be reborn as humans. 

There were no words that could describe the phenomenon which occurred within Crowley then and there. A tingle of excitement, he decided to call it. He raised his head a little, to come to about the same level as his angel companion, and he spoke half-idly, half-aware. 

"If it's with you, Angel, I guess I could give it a shot."

And a spark in the sky flashed in an instant. Aziraphale and Crowley glanced up and saw amidst the grandiosity a flickering, ephemeral shape, carrying on its trajectory towards the unknown. One second it crossed the sky, parting the clear night with its blazing path, confident in its choice of orbit, the next its shine pulsed, then rapidly and gradually disappeared, soon to dissolve into nothingness. 

Then the angel, with a smile still caressing his lips, lowered his gaze towards his friend.

"God, did you see that?" 

Then his smile dissipated, for in the same spot where his friend once lied was now nobody.

"Crowley?" He called into the empty, eerie night.

No answer came. The demon was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a quiet morning.

The warm sunlight touched his cheek fondly and he allowed it to linger, allowed himself to prolong the contact for a bit longer. The aromatic smell of herbal tea teased his nose, tempting him into stealing a sip out of the burning hot mug he held between his hands. He reveled in the taste that ensued, a mixture of honey mingling with it, washing him over with comfort and ease. His fingers flipped through the newspaper slowly, taking in the roughness of the texture, and absorbing each word as if it held the world's meaning enclosed in it. 

No matter how many times he held his morning routine, Aziraphel felt like he could never truly grow tired of it. It was as if, just the day before, he had sipped this same herbal tea, but it just didn't taste quite the same, and as if, just a day ago, he peered through the morning newspaper with a disinterested mind, for he lacked the thirst of knowledge its reading required. It was so true and so wonderful a mystery, he wished he could never uncloak it, for there was excitement in secrecy and beauty in enigmas. 

The doorbell rang, and someone walked into the library. It was a customer, a young dark-haired woman with fair looks and a coat that fell to her ankles. She glanced around hesitantly, then approached the counter at last, behind which Aziraphael was seated. 

"Hello, welcome!" He announced cheerfully, abandoning his newspaper and tea. "How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for a book." She spoke in a quivering voice.

"A book" He repeated with a smile. "Those we have many of. What kind of book are you looking for?"

The young lady cleared her throat immediately, glancing back at Aziraphael with curious eyes.

"-It's for a study." She continued sternly, shying away from fixing him. "On Witchcraft." 

"Oh, surely we have some of those!" He nodded, rising from his seat. "Let me take a look."

Aziraphale disappeared between the shelves in the back of the shop, and the lady at the counter followed his figure with keen eyes that bore a hint of melancholy. He fetched four different books on Witchcraft he thought worth looking through for a student, which he assumed his customer was. He returned to find the young lady unmoved, though her demeanor appeared to have changed drastically. Her stern and earnest glance had dissipated, and behind her long dark eyelashes, tears began to accumulate. 

"Are- Are you all right?" Aziraphale inquired, worrying.

"I am fine. I'm sorry." She nodded, smiling a thin smile. She removed her glasses at once, and wiped her tears away, then held the books Aziraphale was extending to her. "Thank you."

"Of course. I mean, it isn't quite enough. You caught me by surprise, and this is all I had in mind when I first thought about Witchcraft. But, you could come by again tomorrow, and I will make sure I've collected further notable readings if you'd like."

The young lady nodded her head enthusiastically.

"That would be wonderful, thank you!"

And while embracing the books she has been handed, she turned around and started marching towards the exit.

"Oh, wait" Aziraphale quickly announced, and watched the woman standstill by the door, peering at him with large hopeful eyes.

"Excuse me but, may I ask your name?" 

And at that question, he watched the last hints of hope in her eyes shatter. Her smile turned dull, distant, cold. The tears she had just wiped away had returned yet again, creeping from under her eyelashes. 

"Anathema," She said. "I'll see you tomorrow, Aziraphale."

And then she left. And Aziraphale sat back behind his counter in silence. With a cold stale tea on the table and wrinkled newspaper pages. He pondered. He thought of the young lady for a while, Anathema, and wondered why she appeared so strikingly familiar, and why her name left such a bittersweetness in his mouth in the same fashion as the herbal tea with honey.

He then rose from his seat, and his heart pounded aloud at once. 

Most importantly, how come she knew his name?


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley loved crowds.

He reveled at the sight of a diverse audience, in the exquisite excitement resulting from the passersby's side glances, those which bore a hint of interest and which often leads to an inner conflict of whether or not to stop and listen. Most of those were running late by the end of it, forgetting themselves to the music he was playing. And he loved it. He loved that he was given not only their precious time but also their precious attention, willingly. He always loved it, the attention, the spotlight, being the shining star.

He was the shining star of street performance. 

Crowley also loved his guitar. It was his most precious possession. He bought it in a flea market, from a guy who gave up on music, and who blamed his failure on an instrument. He bought it as a joke because he often saw value in what others perceived as worthless, and because it was a challenge, and Crowley loved those, too. Because if he can become a famous musician with a cursed guitar, what could he possibly do with a normal one? The unimaginable. 

And that is exactly what Crowley was going for: the unimaginable. 

The guitar strings echoed over the busy bridge, where Crowley claimed his spot every Saturday - The day the area is far too crowded for local guards to care about hunting illegal street performers. He was in his element. Music, freedom, and alcohol - and of course he had a bottle on him at all times. He was where he was supposed to belong, and by the time he would reach the peak of street performing, he knew he would make it. Now it was just a matter of time before he gets an offer, the offer, the one that'll fly him to the top of his career. Then he'll be the spotlight of the spotlights, and all attention would be on him, and him alone.

And yet, the sensuality with which he welcomed his primal desire to sing, to drink, to achieve what he wanted to achieve, had started to gradually subside. He came to realize, that there was a void in him he simply couldn’t fill.

His eyes traveled idly over the crowd, and for a second he wished he could see a face he would recognize. In the mass of human heat and drunken minds, a busy street at nearly midnight, he saw nothing but the reflection of his pessimism. He saw the failure and disappointment he truly expressed towards himself, and the bitterness that came along with his ample existence. He felt, he felt, he felt, and he wished he could simply cease feeling. Feeling was tiresome. Emotions were a burden. Yet he still felt, and he felt he didn’t belong here, never did.

And how could one stay optimistic when, in their core, they are never truly satisfied with who they are?

He was being melodramatic, he concluded and decided better to ignore those awry thoughts. 

"Thank you, thank you." He spoke to the crowd, whose applause rose by the end of his song.

He then breathed in, and thought, why not?

"For you lovely people, I'll do one more." He announced with playfulness, and the thickening crowd cheered. 

Crowley took the time to tune his guitar for this last piece. He ran a hand through his smooth sidecut and gave his sunglasses a push, and as he was about to get started, at the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a new addition to his audience: a fairly young adolescent with dark curls falling over piercing, innocent eyes. The boy's stare was so sharp it made Crowley wonder if he was seeing through his act. Because, after all, this is what this was: an act.

"Adam! Don't just wander off like that!" 

The call came from what appeared to be the boy's father, an older, round-cheeked man who broke a sweat from effortfully trotting after his son. The called Adam was soon obediently following his father over to the other side of the bridge, yet his stare never left Crowley once, not until his figure disappeared into the next street.

It was a peculiar incident, one Crowley couldn't take his mind off of. And after his performance, from which he earned quite a good amount all things considering, he wandered around the city rather aimlessly, still in thought. He was doing well for a freelance artist, a street performer, a punk singer, he reminded himself once again. And yet, he was neither fulfilled nor content. It wasn't success he lacked, it was something else, something he couldn't quite put a finger on. There was a bitter taste at the tip of his tongue, or perhaps that was simply the taste of the cigarette smoke mixed with the liquor he's been indulging in all day. It wasn't healthy, but who cared for health? He didn't. It didn't matter. Nothing did, really.

"Crowley!"

Crowley turned around immediately at the call of his name. Behind him was the young boy, the one from before, Adam.

"Oh, you again," Crowley noted, squinting his eyes behind the sunglasses. He didn't need them, not at night at least, but it was a habit, and habits are hard to break. "Do I know you?" He forwarded inquisitively.

"You do," said the boy. "You know me, us. You used to, at least."

Crowley's eyebrow perked up, skeptical. 

"Whatever that means," he smirked, blowing a line of smoke into the air. "What do you want?"

"I want you to remember," he said, clenching his fists tight, giving him that stern look again. "You have to remember. You can't go on like this. You can't just... Forget us!"

"Look, kid-" He interrupted, disinterested entirely. "If it's an autograph you're after, I'm happy to oblige. But I don't have time for this rubbish." 

Careless of what the boy had in store, Crowley turned his back to him and walked away. 

"Aziraphale needs you!" 

And then, for a split second, Crowley felt like he had gotten stung by a bee, struck by lightning. It was as if his entire existence had been shaken at the hearing of that name. His heart pounded briskly, and a nostalgic air washed over his senses. It wasn't a flashback or a memory, it was a smell, a touch, a feeling, he remembered. Yet no matter how intense he felt them, he couldn't quite comprehend their meaning, and he couldn't specify their origin. All of it was now forgotten, and he was left with nothing but the debris of their poignant impact. 

He shed the cigarette stub at last, then turned his head to look behind, filled with questions.

But Young Adam was long gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I didn't know where I was going with this when I first started it. But now I'm kind of enjoying the idea of Adam and Anathema trying to set Crowley and Aziraphale up to regain their memory. It's just cute and funny, especially when they are failing miserably at playing cupid. 
> 
> Let's see how that develops in the next chapters.

Aziraphale awoke from a dream that night. He dreamed he was an angel. Oh, how foolish of him, an angel! How could he even think of such nonsense? He truly believed he had nothing of their pureness, of their beauty, of their faithfulness. Those were far better beings than his human mind could possibly comprehend, and his human mind comprehended quite a lot.

He wiped the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. It was cold. It made him shudder. He felt unnatural, as if, as if he was remembering something, or trying to, at least, and failing. He was trying to remember the dream, to reconnect with it. In the dream, he wasn't alone. He was with someone else. He was with someone whose light shone ten times brighter than his, perhaps another angel? A better angel? A purer angel? He couldn't remember. He couldn't. The dream faded, and he lost the last string that connected him to it. Now the dream was dissipating from his mind, now it was being forgotten, and Aziraphale, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, couldn't bring its bits and pieces to resurface. Now it was entirely gone.

He reached for the glass of water laid atop his nightstand and took a sip, then another. He peeled the blanket off him and rose to his feet to cross the dark room towards the window. There he stood still and contemplated the exterior, which gave onto a large street, and to his greatest pleasure, allowed a vast view of the night sky.

It was a moonless night and all the stars revealed themselves to the world. He lost himself to their peculiar elegance and their arranged arbitrariness and thought, how wonderful would it be if he were to fly up there amongst them, a star among stars, an angel among angels? Would he taste freedom? Would he experience elation? Or would he simply contemplate the earth from above and wonder how it would feel like to be down here instead?

Something. Something. Something. Something.

Something was missing.

What was it? What was it? What was it?

He didn't know.

Ah, the irritation he was seized with for a moment. To be utterly and entirely irritated in the midst of night whilst viewing a perfect sky should be considered sinful. He was sinful. He must redeem. To redeem is to beg for forgiveness. He wanted to beg for forgiveness. He wanted to be forgiven by the sky, by the stars, by whoever is out there, for having forgotten them, for having forgotten who they were, and how wonderful their existence was, for having such an incredible impact on him forever after.

The truth, Aziraphale thought, is not always tangible. The truth is sought, but not always found. He read books about it, so it must be true. He wanted to know the truth, and he wasn't ready to give up until he did.

The morning after, Aziraphale held himself ready for Anathema's visit. His mind thought it implausible that she could be of any help in seeking the truth Aziraphale was after, yet his heart, his heart clang to that hope. At roughly nine o'clock, the door of the library opened, the bell rang, and a short young man with dark hair made an appearance.

"Good morning!" Aziraphale announced, seized with a hint of disappointment. "How may I help you, young man?"

Adam approached the register with a sad demeanor. He seemed sorrowed, tearful even. He peered up at Aziraphale behind his long dark eyelashes, appearing so frail, so helpless.

"Are you all right, young one? Did something happen?"

"I- I think I lost my way" Adam moaned in despair. "I was outside with my father and- and the next second, he was gone."

Aziraphale immediately removed himself from behind the register and approached the boy with an expression filled with worry and concern.

"You poor thing!" He cried, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "But you're all right, now, you're all right! You did well coming here. Tell me, where did you last see your father? Perhaps that could help."

"He-He bought me cotton candy at the bridge, not so far from here," Adam answered with great accuracy. "Say, mister, you will help me find my father, won't you?"

Aziraphale eyed the shop around him for a brief second, thoughtful. If Anathema were to come while Aziraphale is not around, that would be a missed opportunity, one he might not come across again in his life. But then again, this young boy in front of him brought out every shed of pity in him and he simply could not stand the sight of those teary eyes. As his eyes focused on the boy, Aziraphale, stuttering, managed a decisive answer.

"Of course!" He encouraged, "I will come with you."

Adam smiled proudly, and with unquestionable excitement, held Aziraphale's hand and led him out of the shop in haste. They moved at a fast pace across the street and into the long alleyway that connected the area to the town's bridge. It was a quiet Monday morning, one where the people were less likely to be seen outdoors. The sky was a bright blue, and the sun shone brightly above their heads. The smell of the river's water washed over Aziraphale's senses before they reached the exit of the alleyway. And following up the young boy, he wondered when was the last time he visited this district. It felt, somehow, like it was his first.

"Over there!" Adam announced, pointing towards the pebbled staircase that led them over the bridge.

They slowed down the pace once they reached the top, and Adam began scrutinizing his vicinity with such eagerness and hurry. He must truly miss his father, Aziraphale thought, the poor kid. There weren't many people present around: a young pair of lovers occupied the bench that gave onto the water and a couple of hasty passersby rushed past them, seemingly late to their important rendezvous.

"I don't see him!" Adam complained, angered. "He's supposed to be here! He's supposed to be playing for the crowd!"

"Your father?" Aziraphale wondered, confused by the young one's insinuations "Perhaps he is looking for you elsewhere? Why don't we go to where you live instead? he's probably-"

"No, mister!" Adam shouted with a clear resolution. "I'm pretty sure he's here, somewhere. Let's walk around some more."

And so they walked around the bridge for another ten minutes to no avail. Aziraphale was growing conscious of the boy's impatience. He seemed on edge, his teary eyes now squinted with frowny eyebrows and a displeased look. He appeared disappointed if anything.

"Young one, I think we should give up and-"

"Anathema!" Adam called at the top of his lungs.

Aziraphale raised his head to the unexpected view of the dark-haired lady appearing at the other side of the bridge. With weighty steps and a menacing figure, she approached them, her voice to be heard from a mile across.

"Adam?!" She exclaimed, furious. "What are you doing here?" Her eyes then traveled briefly towards Aziraphale, and Aziraphale smiled at her rather awkwardly. "What is _he_ doing here?"

"I- I brought him to meet the demon, of course!" Adam explained himself. "Where is he? Weren't you supposed to bring him here according to the plan?"

"The plan?" Anathema cried, her anger rising. "The plan was for you to make sure you stay in the bookshop! And for me to send him your way, not the other way around!"

"Oh, bugger!" Adam moaned, finding himself guilty.

"Um, excuse me," Aziraphale cleared his throat, finding the situation extremely confusing. "If I may ask, do you two know each other?"

Anathema and Adam's attention left one another to focus on Aziraphale in an instant. The two exchanged a swift indecisive glance before Anathema decided to answer.

"But of course!" She laughed an unnatural laugh. "Adam's my neighbor's son. He's like a little brother to me. _One which I feel like murdering at times_." She whispered the second bit for only Adam to hear. He squinted.

"Ah, that's wonderful. That means you could help me lead the boy back to his parents. He seems quite lost."

"No!" Adam interrupted. "I mean" he coughed. "Anathema is like a bigger sister to me, and I'm quite relieved I have run into her. But I don't necessarily need to return home right away, do I?"

His eyes diverted towards Anathema, and with a grin underlying her authority, she nodded.

"No, you're right, Adam." She said. "Instead, how about you accompany me to this nice Mister's bookshop? I intend to pick up some books there today."

Adam nodded in agreement, and Aziraphale found himself in no position to refuse. He enjoyed their company, he admitted, and having them around in the bookshop would elevate his mood if anything.

"All right, then. Back to the bookshop, it is."

And with that, Aziraphale turned around and began tracing his steps back to where he came from, followed by two new strange, yet entertaining acquaintances.

_What did you tell Crowley?_ Adam whispered in the back.

_That the bookshop's looking for a musician for their book party evening._ Anathema whispered back. _I made the idea up on the spot, and he immediately bought it._

_What a simple man._ Adam sighed.

"Concerning what you were speaking of..." Aziraphale began, thoughtful. Anathema and Adam exchanged a concerned glance. Were they overheard? "What did you mean by wanting me to meet the demon, young man?"

Adam grew pale, and Anathema, once again, came to the rescue.

"It's a nickname for his father." She made up. "I told him many a time to not call his own parent a demon, but do you think he would listen?"

Aziraphale laughed whole-heartedly. "Really?"

"I- " Adam groaned, red with shame. "Let's just get to the bookshop now, shall we?"

"Why the hurry?" Aziraphale wondered, walking idly.

_Do something._ Adam whispered while nudging Anathema. _Crowley isn't the patient type. He's probably gone by now!_

_And whose fault do you think it is?_ Anathema groaned, receiving a displeased glare. _Fine!_

"I happen to have a meeting of the utmost importance this afternoon" Anathema lied out loud, taking light bouncy steps behind Aziraphale who peered at her over his shoulder. "Do you mind if we rush?"

"Oh, I should've known!" Aziraphale immediately nodded "Let us hurry, then!

Behind him, Anathema and Adam bumped their fists in victory.

This was one step forward in their big plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they met!

There was nobody in the bookshop. 

It was a lie, he thought at first, a prank; Someone thought it was a wise idea to make a fool out of Crowley, and Crowley despised being made a fool out of. Crowley bites back, and he bites hard. 

He was irritated. So irritated he bit the skin off his bottom lip - a bad habit of his - while circling the bookshop aisles. He couldn't believe he was so easily fooled. Perhaps it was the intellectual expression on her face or the earnest stare in her eyes, either way, she appeared as someone trustworthy, someone who wouldn't lie about things. She wasn't lying when she complimented his singing. Or was she? At this point, he didn't know. All he knew is that he spent the past hour of his precious time waiting for something that was certainly not going to happen. Nobody was here, after all; And what kind of bookshop was this, anyway, left unattended and all? 

He gritted his teeth and trotted into the next aisle. Books, books, and more books. All around him were shelves rising to the ceiling filled with them. Who wouldn't grow bored working here? He would. He certainly would. He wasn't one to sit straight for two seconds without getting fidgety and bored to the bone. It wasn't like he had never read any books, either. He was just picky about them, that is all.

"Boring, boring, boring!" He muttered to himself as he passed by the aisle, eyeing random book titles on his way. "Don't they have anything dark and twisted in here?"

He clicked his tongue in annoyance and exited the aisle into the back of the shop. He discovered a corner by the window side, hidden from sight, with a cozy armchair, a tiny round wooden table, and plenty of light penetrating through the window glass. It was rather appealing, Crowley had to admit to himself. He shrugged his shoulders and threw himself in the comfort of the chair. He was made to walk the entire road here for nothing, so if anything, he deserved this.

Basking in the sunlight with his crossed legs thrown over the table, Crowley hummed a tune. This wasn't so bad, he thought. Bookshops were quite decent, after all.

Then there on the round table, underneath his shiny black platform shoes, the hardcover of a book supported his weight. He leaned across and brought it before his eyes. With the slide of sunglasses, his dark hues peered the title with little interest.

''On Witchcraft and the dangerous dark arts,'' he mouthed out loud, an eyebrow perking up in interest. ''Well, hello there.''

While humming, Crowley skimmed enthusiastically through the first pages of the thick volume. It was interesting, but not quite as entertaining as he expected it to be. It was a spellbook. Pages and pages filled with potions and how to go about concocting them, and as much as he reveled in the beauty of all dark things, he knew this was utter crap, a load of bullshit. Who would get the love of their life drink a mixture of disgustingly self-brewed herbs in the hope of having them fall under their charm? Surely nobody believed in such idiocies. 

He took it upon himself, and as a mean to kill boredom, flipped through a few more pages. 

''Memory potion,'' he read, scoffing. ''What for? Reminding me not to read through this joke of a book again? Please.'' 

Crowley groaned in pure annoyance, throwing his head back and eyeing the ceiling above him in search of any mean of entertainment. For a second it crossed his mind: Memory potion. What would he do with one? He wondered. What if he, by any chance, happened to have forgotten parts of his life, parts that were so grand and relevant that ignoring their existence made of him a wholly different person?

Perhaps he has forgotten something, indeed, if that could explain how unhappy and self-loathing he has become. Perhaps he has forgotten the part of himself that made him carry on further and further ahead, the part of him that made life worth living.

If he did forget something, it must be something important. Something that linked his soul to the sky, and left him ponder at the beauty of the vast universe. He was sentimental, a trait he so refused to accept as his own, but which was part of his being, nonetheless. A sentimental soul that sees beyond the material, beyond the corporeal, but what does it see? What does he see when he closes his eyes and disconnects from the moment?

He closed his eyes, right then and there, and attempted to transcend. In the corner of the bookstore with the soft warm light caressing his pale cheek and the hard wooden table under his feet. The comfort in which he lied was like no other, and by attempting to disconnect, to flee from it, he only found himself reconnecting with it all the more, then a spark, a fleeting moment occurred, and the taste of red wine teased the tip of his lip.

''Red wine?'' He flinched. "Of all the bloody good liquor out there-"

Then the door of the bookshop opened, and the echo of voices traveled from the other side.

''Come in, come in,'' A soft voice announced in all excitement, ''I'll go fetch the books right this second. You wait right here!''

Crowley stayed exactly where he was, unmoving. He heard the rhythmic thud of swift shoes against the surface of the wooden floor approaching, closer and closer. He held his breath, and he did not know why. Then, the front door opened again, and the approaching steps halted midway.

''Adam!'' shouted the voice. ''There you are, you little devil! Your mum and I have been looking for you all over town!''

''Dad!'' 

Crowley cocked his head at the familiarity of the young boy's voice.

''And you, Miss Device, couldn't you bring him right home while you could? I thought you were a responsible adult, one I could count on indeed!''

''Mr. Young, I can explain-''

''I do not care to hear it, miss. I am utterly disappointed in you!'' yelled the angry man, and then the young Adam's voice squeaked. ''And you young man, you're coming with me! No more going out on your own!''

''Ouch, ouch, ouch! My ear!'' cried the young boy, rattling along.

''Is everything all right in here?''

The soothing voice which joined the chaotic scene was of the same energetic lad Crowley heard approaching earlier. Quite curious, did Crowley grow, that he abandoned his seat by the window side and silently slithered through the aisle. He made way to the entrance of the bookshop, where everyone was reunited, and carefully, and behind a large bookshelf, peered between two empty rows.

''I apologize if my son caused you any trouble,'' conveyed the tall, round-cheeked man, Crowley remembered him from the bridge a day before. Right beside him, stood a guilty-looking Adam, with tearful eyes that winced each time his red ear was pulled. 

''Not at all!'' defended the shop owner, rising peaceful hands in the air.

Crowley pulled down his sunglasses for the sake of scrutinizing this intriguing yet quite interesting character. He wore a mixture of beige and white shades of color, a trenchcoat over an old-fashioned suit, and in the angle from which Crowley observed, all he could see were soft white curls and a clean figure. He stood with his back straight and behaved peculiarly for someone his age. Too eccentric? No, too well-behaved.

''Your son has been but a wonderful company today.'' He said, ''He seemed to have gotten lost, and I am quite relieved you have found each other!''

''Well I am sure he cared less to look for me, now, aren't I right?'' The father bitterly glared down at his son, then, with a sharp sigh, let go of his pained ear, and urged Adam towards the door. ''And miss, may I speak to you outside?''

Anathema stiffened, and with a guilty expression on her face, she eyed the bewildered librarian.

''I'm sorry. It looks like I will be picking up the books tomorrow instead.'' 

''I-- You--'' 

The shopkeeper's voice softened and died, unheard by the three who were now exiting the shop in silence.

''Sorry, Mister Aziraphale!'' shouted Adam from outside, waving back at him while his father, hand in hand, dragged him forward.

''Ah, but you didn't do anything wrong... Is what I wanted to say.'' Aziraphale exhaled, regretful.

In the far back behind the high shelf, Crowley froze.

_Aziraphale?_

_"Aziraphale needs you!"_ echoed Adam's voice in his head. So this was him, _the_ Aziraphale.

The taste of red wine at the tip of Crowley's tongue intensified. 

"Who're you?" 

To the voiced question, Aziraphale turned around with a bouncy step, investigating the nature of his speaker. When he caught sight of Crowley coming out of hiding, his eyes grew wide, and for a brief moment, he felt he had lost his thread of thoughts. 

"Good day!" He cheerfully hummed, a wide smile on his lips. "I- I didn't notice you standing there. I am, uh, I am Aziraphale, the owner of this small bookshop. Can I help you with anything?" 

Crowley's expression was indecipherable underneath his dark shades. He took slow, dragged steps towards the shop owner, and, standing a couple of inches higher - the platform shoe's doing - he scrutinized the quirky man from up close. 

Growing quite uncomfortable due to both Crowley's vicinity and his prolonged silence, Aziraphale held his joined hands over his belly, one thumb probing at the other, and he cleared his throat repeatedly for he felt quite odd standing there before this black-clothed, punk-looking, handsome individual. 

"Do I know you?" Crowley inquired, holding his close stance, insisting on holding it almost.

"I, uh, I don't think so," stuttered Aziraphale, wearing a feeble smile. 

"Are you sure?" Crowley's intense staring did not falter.

Aziraphale hesitantly nodded. "But if there's any book you're interested in, just let me kn-"

"This one," interrupted Crowley, holding up the hardcover volume on Witchcraft and the Dangerous Dark Arts. "How much?"

Aziraphale's eyes flickered between Crowley's unreadable expression and the book he held in his hand. At the sight of the title, he gasped.

"Ah! Unfortunately, that book is already claimed."

"Do I seem to care?" He hissed, leaning closer. 

Aziraphale sighed a deep sigh.

"I am sorry, sir, but I cannot sell a book that is already claimed. It is part of my profession to hold my promise to my customers. But if you wish, I could order a second version for you."

Strangely, Crowley was not irritated. He was embarrassed if anything. He found himself wondering why he even suggested buying the book in the first place. It was not like he was the least bit interested in how one can concoct a love potion recipe, after all. However, he had the urge to assert dominance, to reflect full confidence, to appeal. Crowley was, and without realizing it himself, trying to charm this peculiar gentleman - well, in his very own way. 

"Tomorrow then!" He yelled shamelessly, then with one last fleeting glance at those soft silver curls and those gentle, almost childish features, Crowley planted the book in Aziraphale's own hands and passed him by to storm out of the shop. 

"Wait!" Aziraphale incited once Crowley had reached the door. "Your name. What's your name?"

Crowley peered over his shoulder, and almost out of habit, cocked his head to the side and displayed a thin half-smirk.

"It's Crowley. You make sure to remember that."

And then he was gone.


End file.
